Breaking Up Is Really, Really Hard to Do (5 page)

Dear Beau,

May I call you that, for short? Beauregard sounds so stuffy.

No, delete that last sentence,
she decided. She didn't want to insult him in the first paragraph. She changed it to:

Beauregard takes so long to type. I was pleased to receive your e-mail.

Now what? Answer his questions. But how? She needed to do a little research. She went online and Googled “Jarmusch” to find out who that was. Jim Jarmusch, a seminal independent filmmaker who started out in the 1980s. First major film,
Stranger Than Paradise.
Often works in black-and-white. That was enough info to start with. Now, where was she studying?

She found a film department at Berkeley, so that was a possibility…Santa Cruz was too far away…Aha. San Francisco State had a grad program. Perfect. She knew the city fairly well, since Carlton Bay was only an hour north of it. And her father, a banker, went to work there every day. Now back to her e-mail.

Dear Beau,

May I call you that, for short? Beauregard takes so long to type. I was pleased to receive your e-mail. I have a few free moments to write you back before I'm off to a cafe to read up on film theory. I'm studying for my masters degree at San Francisco State. The film department here is so intellectual. We watch black-and-white movies all the time. I guess you must have seen
Stranger Than Paradise,
if you like Jarmusch. I love black-and-white movies, too. Of course, Quentin Tarantino usually works in color but I like his movies as well. Actually, I guess most movies are in color these days. It's hard to find a good one in black and white.

So anyway, I grew up in the Bay Area, and that's about it. Please write back soon—I'd love to read more about your life. What is the school where you work like? Do you have any favorite students?

—Larissa

Hello Larissa,

Feel free to call me Beau. Can I call you Lara for short? Like the heroine of
Doctor Zhivago.
Now there's a good movie, and in color, too.

(Your e-mail was so funny! “I guess most movies are in color.” I'm glad you have a sense of humor. All my favorite people do.)

Let's see, you asked about the school where I teach. Well, it's an interesting place. It's a public high school, pretty progressive. Or, as the principal says, it's an “assessment-driven, cross-curricular, inquiry-centered school designed to maximize the students’ competencies as impactfully as possible.” My friend Camille and I call him Rod, because he's got such a stick up his butt. Not to his face, of course. We want to keep our jobs, at least for now.

Anyway, it's supposed to be a magnet school for the smart kids in the area, but this is a fairly ritzy town, and all the parents think their kids are geniuses. So they prep them for the test to get into the magnet school and a lot of them get in. But most of them are far from geniuses, trust me. I do like some students better than others, but I try not to let it show.

The teachers are a mixed lot. There's this one poor old geometry teacher named Mildred. She's got a glass eye, she's overweight, and she's getting up there in years—she's got to be close to sixty. The kids call her “Mildew” and “Sleep-Eez” behind her back, but she's actually a nice lady. The art teacher is this odd, super-skinny guy with a long mustache. He's hung over almost every morning and he smokes like a chimney, but he's good for a laugh. He's been at the school for twenty years. At times the bitterness shows. God, I think I'd shoot myself if had to teach there that long.

Well, I've really rambled on. Hope I didn't bore you. Teaching at a suburban high school isn't nearly as glamorous as being a big-city film student. Write back soon, if you have time, and tell me more about yourself. You saw the “Five things I can't live without” in my ad. What are yours?

—Beau

“Wow, Frank Welling is hung over every day?” Mads said. He was the art teacher Dan had described. “No wonder he's so cranky in the mornings.”

“This is amazing,” Holly said. She and Mads huddled around Lina's computer that evening, reading the secret thoughts of their teacher. “It's a gold mine of inside information!”

“I can't believe he calls Mr. Alvarado ‘Rod,’” Mads said. The principal's real name was John Alvarado, and he did spout a lot of educational jargon. “That is so funny. Rod. Rod Alvarado. He is very stiff.” She drew herself up straight and imitated his voice. “‘It's critical that the facilitators of this proactive mission triangulate their methodologies.’”

Holly and Lina laughed. “Who's this ‘Camille’ he mentions?” Holly asked.

“It must be Mademoiselle Barker,” Lina said. The pretty young French teacher. Lina hadn't realized that she and Dan were such good friends. She'd often wondered if there wasn't something—a flirtation at least—between them.

“What's the deal with her, anyway?” Mads said.

“They can't be dating, or he wouldn't be writing to Larissa,” Holly said.

Lina took comfort in that. But she still had her suspicions.

“I've got to write him back again,” Lina said. “What should I say?”

“Ask him if any of his students have crushes ‘on him,” Mads said.

“No!” Lina said.

“That way you'll know if he's on to you,” Mads said.

“No,” Lina repeated.

“Ask him what he thinks of Goth girls,” Holly said, thinking of Lina's friend and rival, Ramona.

“Too obvious,” Lina said. “I don't want him to realize that I know him.”

“All right then, keep it simple,” Holly said. “Tell him your favorite foods and colors and all that, and ask his. And see where that takes you.”

“Good idea.” Lina started composing her reply.

Dear Beau,

You're right—film school is a lot more glamorous than high school. How could it not be? I'd die if I had to go through high school again.

“That's good,” Holly said. “Piper says that all the time.” Piper was Holly's older sister, who was away at college.

“What about the five things you can't live without?” Mads said. “Let's see, there's gummi worms, peanut butter, your day-of-the-week underwear—”

“Mads! I'm not going to tell him about that.” She did love gummi worms and peanut butter and her day-of-the week underwear, with a different pastel color for each day. She also loved Frosted Teddy Grahams and her old Raggedy Ann doll, but she wasn't about to tell
him
that. Larissa wouldn't like those things. Larissa was too sophisticated.

The five things I can't live without are my Chanel no. 5 perfume, my red nail polish, my
Encyclopedia of Film,
my dark glasses, and a pair of high heels.

“Wow, that's glam,” Mads said.

“You should add peanut butter,” Holly said. “He said he loves Nutter Butters. It gives you something in common.”

“Okay.” Lina changed the high heels to peanut butter. It added a nice touch of humility.

I can tell from the way you talk about your school that you are a good teacher. I'll bet the students really appreciate you. You're a good writer, too. Have you ever thought of writing a novel? I think I'd like to try it myself someday.

What are you doing now? Are you at home, grading papers? Are you out somewhere, seeing friends? I'm just curious. I'm writing to you on my laptop at a cafe, watching all the people come and go. I can see the lights of the Bay Bridge twinkling in the distance. This really is a beautiful city. Good night, Beau. Write back soon.

—Lara

“Wow, Lina, that's beautiful,” Mads said. “It's almost like a poem.”

Lina hoped Dan would be just as impressed.

Mads and Holly had gone home by the time Dan responded. Lina was glad. His answer was short and sweet, and she wanted to keep it private.

Dear Lara,

It's late at night, and I know I might regret this in the morning…but I have to tell you, you are amazing. You have such a beautiful way of looking at life. I don't want to rush things, but I sincerely hope we will meet someday.

Yours, Beau

6

Portrait of the Artist as a Teenage Girl

To: mad4u

From: your daily horoscope

HERE IS TODAY'S HOROSCOPE: VIRGO: People often underestimate you; but you're determined to show them they're wrong. It's a lost cause, but I guess I can't stop you from trying.

S
tand against that white wall,” Mads told Holly. She pressed Holly against the wall in the art room. “Okay, look right at me,” Mads instructed. “Don't smile. Good.” She took a picture with her new digital camera. “Now let's try a few where you're smiling.”

Stephen worked on the other side of the room, constructing his bedroom installation. Mads could feel him half-watching and half-listening.

“Why don't you pose her like Venus?” he suggested. “Like that famous painting.”

Mads knew the one he meant, where Venus is standing on a giant seashell. “You mean, naked?” Mads asked.

“I'm not posing naked, even for you, Mads,” Holly said.

“No, but looking as if she's coming out of the sea, maybe a fan blowing her hair back—” Stephen said.

“Sorry, but that's, not my vision of Holly,” Mads said. “And, anyway, I'm not sure I could draw that.”

Stephen shrugged. “She reminds me of that painting, that's all.”

Mads stopped and looked at him, surprised. Did Stephen have a thing for Holly? He had turned back to his work, so Mads couldn't tell. But saying a girl looks like Botticelli's
Venus
was a pretty high compliment, especially coming from an arty guy like him.

She looked through the photos she'd taken and chose a pretty shot of Holly with a half-smile on her face, tugging on a strand of hair. She loaded it onto the computer and printed out a copy to work from.

“Can I stay and watch you work for a few minutes?” Holly asked.

“Sure,” Mads said. “You can help me plan my party. Should I send out real invitations or e-vites? If I go with snail mail I've got to send them by tomorrow or people won't get them in time.” Stephen was hammering now, so he couldn't hear them talking. She didn't want him to think she was frivolous, an empty head full of nothing but party details.

“E-vites are fine,” Holly said. “Are your parents going to be there?”

“Duh. Do you think they'd let me have a party without total supervision? Not only will my parents be there, but my Aunt Georgia and Uncle Skip are coming to keep them company. I talked them out of inviting the teachers at least. But I've got to find a way to keep the adults from poisoning the party with their toxic bring-down rays.”

Mads took out her pastels and clipped a thick piece of paper to an easel. “This is a great picture of you, Holly,” she said.

Holly leaned over to look at it. “You think? My nose looks so big.”

“No, it doesn't,” Mads said. “You have an elegant nose.”

“It's a good thing you took my picture today and not tomorrow,” Holly said. “I feel a giant zit coming on. It's sitting just below the surface of my skin, waiting for the perfect moment to pop out and ruin my life.”

“You never get zits.”

“Oh yeah? What do you call this?” Holly pointed to a tiny red dot near her hairline.

Mads squinted to see it. “I call that invisible. You want to see a zit? Take a look at—”

The hammering stopped. Mads clammed up. She felt funny talking about zits and noses in front of Stephen. She was afraid it would make her seem silly. She sighed loudly and slapped Holly's photo against her thigh.

“Isn't this ridiculous? Here you are sitting right in front of me, and I'm drawing you from a photo. It's a perfect example of how technology distances us from real life.”

“What?” Holly said. “Can we get back to zits please, because I don't know what you're talking about.”

“But I need the photo so I can work on the drawing when you're not around,” Mads continued. “Oh, the terrible demands of modern life.”

“You'd be lost without your cell phone, your iPod, and your laptop, and you know it,” Holly said.

“Mads, that reminds me,” Stephen called from across the room. Aha—he
was
listening. He rummaged through his backpack and pulled out a book. “I brought this for you, in case you're interested.” He crossed the room and laid the book on her table.
The Empty World
by Berndt Werner.

Mads lightly touched the cover. “Thanks, Stephen. This is that philosopher you said you liked, right?”

Holly reached for the book. “Hey, my sister Piper is reading that for her philosophy seminar.” She read the back cover and added, “Wow, Mads, this is heavy stuff. You sure you can handle it?”

Mads shot her a dirty look. “Of course I can. I'm very interested in philosophy.”

“You can give it back when you're done with it,” Stephen said, heading back toward his work area. “But take your time.” He started hammering again.

“What's going on?” Holly whispered to Mads. “The only philosophy you're interested in is The Collected Wisdom of Sean Benedetto. Or so I thought.”

“That's not true,” Mads whispered back. “I'm interested in lots of things.”

“Like Stephen,” Holly said. “I know what you're doing up here after school every day. You're flirting with him!”

“No, I'm not!” Mads flushed red. She wasn't flirting with Stephen. She just liked talking to him. And she didn't think he'd waste his time talking to an airhead, so she tried to show him her more serious side. It was a good thing. Her serious side could use a little development.

“You're wrong, Holly,” she said. “I'm still into Sean. I'm just trying to improve myself, that's all.”

“Okay, okay, I believe you,” Holly said. “Don't get upset. Your face is redder than this crayon.” She picked up a red pastel crayon. It left a rosy dust on her fingers.

Do I have a crush on Stephen?
Mads wondered. She pushed the question out of her mind. Better not to think about it, she decided—and then she went right on thinking about it.

Why would a boy like Stephen be interested in me? He's so serious and I'm so flighty…. The harder I try to be serious, the flightier I am! Well, I'm
not
going to talk about this with anyone, not even Holly or Lina. They already think I'm crazy to be in love with Sean. Here I am, crushing on another guy who will never like me back.…I'll look like a mental case, or at least pathetic. They'll just make a big deal out of nothing. And that's what it is—nothing.